


Screeching the Gospel

by edensong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Plot, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edensong/pseuds/edensong
Summary: When Sage arrives in town, she's expecting a simple salt+burn, no trouble. It turns out a certain Winchester is also in on the hunt. None of this is what they expected.





	Screeching the Gospel

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! For the first chapter, Dean is going by a false name. Just a heads up that this is, in fact, a Winchester fic :)

MISSOURI

 

“What can I get you?” You asked to the patron, an older man settled at the far end of the bar.

 

“Coors please.” You reached for a glass below the bar counter, filling it up from the beer tap. You slid it across the counter to the man. It was nearly the end of your shift, and you were eagerly clutching the bar towel, ready to wipe down the bar and head home. The white towel made circles along the dark wood, and your mind wandered to the real reason you were here. Ghost sightings. Unexplained medical phenomena. There were 3 teenagers dead, their ears bleeding and their brains liquefied. All found inside a foreclosed house on the other side of town.

 

A chair screeched against the wooden floor, breaking your focus. You glanced to the other end of the bar, where a young man took a seat. He smirked and nodded his head, eyes quickly flitting across your figure. He held out a credit card between two fingers, eager for a drink. You made your way to the leather-jacketed man, greeting him with a smile.

 

“What can I get you?”

 

“Whiskey, neat. Thanks princess.” His voice was deliciously gruff, low and smooth, like velvet. He leaned forward onto the bar, smirking and hitting you with a green-eyed stare. You turned to grab the nearest bottle of whiskey and a glass, when he cut in,

 

“You from around here?”

 

“Something like that,” You responded.

 

“Well,” His voice was just on the verge of a chuckle, the corner of his lip turning up, “you ever drink on the job?”

 

“Are you hitting on me,” You glanced down to his credit card, “Jackson Teller?” You said with an accusatory tone.

 

“Hey, just thinking maybe you’d wanna get outta here.” He held his hands up, palms open, as if to feign innocence.

 

“Sorry, you’re not really my type.” The man leaned in, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

 

“and why’s that?” He asked, his tone hushed.

 

“You’re 10 years too young, Mr.Teller.”

 

“Where’s that come from?” He chuckled.

 

“I don’t know, daddy issues?” You smirked.

 

“Listen sweetheart, you can call me whatever you want, I don’t mind.” He smiled, flashing dazzling white teeth. You laughed under your breath.

 

“Here’s your drink, on me,” You poured his whiskey and looked straight into his hypnotizing green eyes, “drink it, and go home.” You ordered, your voice on the side of friendly, rather than aggressive. He looked down and his body bounced with a silent laugh.

 

* * *

 

You left work, prepared to deal with this ghost. There was an old house near the apple orchard, a woman used to live there in the 1900’s. She loved to sing, and participated in the town’s church choir. When she was killed in a cold-blooded murder, she began to haunt the house. Her once lovely voice had turned into something so vile and loud, it could liquefy the brain of anyone who was forced to listen.

 

From the looks of it, her body was cremated, but in an image you found of her, there was an old gospel book sitting on the vanity behind her. If all went as planned, you would find the gospel book, salt and burn it, and the spirit would be gone.

 

You decided to walk from your motel, your only mode of transportation being an old Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. The police would be able to hear you a mile away, and you weren’t going to go out on a trespassing charge. You loaded your duffel bag with a shotgun, rock-salt shells, lighter fuel, a flashlight, and salt. You hopefully wouldn’t need anything else.

 

You approached the rickety old house, which was just about as creepy as you could imagine. It was overrun with plants, the structure cracked and dilapidated. You ducked inside through a half-boarded window, the house darkened by the night. You froze, listening for a moment. Your hunter senses were keen, and you were in tune with the small creaks and movements anywhere you went.

 

You shuffled past some old junk on the floor, silently moving towards what seemed to be the kitchen. As you moved through the open doorway, you were ambushed by a dark figure.

 

They swung at you, which you ducked. You deflected their next shot, using their momentum to throw them to your right. You swung, which they blocked. A full-on fight ensued, the room filled with fighting grunts and swung punches. You were quick on your feet, but so were they. They deflected your final elbow, maneuvering you to the ground and pinning you there.

 

Your chest heaved as a flashlight shone into your eyes.

 

“No way.” A man spoke. It was a voice you recognized…

 

“Jackson?” You asked, shocked at the situation.

 

The man quickly moved off you and pulled you to your feet. You turned on your own flashlight and paused for a moment. The room filled with both of your panting, standing face-to-face trying to understand what was happening. You glanced down, spotting another duffel bag, filled with the same contents yours had.

 

Jackson opened his mouth to speak, when your consciousness was overtaken by an ear-bursting screeching. You saw red for a moment, quickly covering your ears and scrunching your face. You dropped to a crouch, picking up your shotgun and pulling the trigger just as a creepy woman approached Jackson from behind.

 

“Go! Find the book!” Jackson shouted over another screech, grabbing the shotgun from you and quickly firing it off again in another direction. You grabbed the salt and lighter fuel, before sprinting to the stairs across the room. You could feel blood dripping down the sides of your face as you barreled down the dilapidated stairs to the basement.

 

You shone your flashlight, rifling through everything on the nearest shelf, desperate to find the gospel book. You threw things off of the shelf, before hearing another screech and a shout from Jackson. Your chest heaved, gasping with adrenaline-infused breath. You dove towards the nearest painting, running your hand along the back of the frame. With some stroke of luck, an old gospel book fell from behind the wall décor.

 

“How’s that book coming!?” You heard an angry shout from upstairs.

 

You sprinted to the furnace, tossing the book inside, salting it, and dousing it in fuel. You struck your zippo before tossing it onto the book and watching it erupt in flames. You quickly fell onto your ass, watching as the book burned in front of you. You immediately noticed the silence that fell over the house.

 

Panting, you ran back upstairs, where you met Jackson in the entryway. He was laying on his back, gasping for air, blood running from both his ears. Beside him was a pile of ash that used to be the singing woman.

 

You quickly held out your hand, boosting Jackson to stand in front of you. You both paused, catching your breath, looking at each other.

 

“Jackson,” You panted.

 

He looked down, chuckling to himself. “Dean. It’s Dean.”

 

“Okay, Dean. I think I’ll take you up on that drink now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment with what you think! I will update on a weird schedule so if you like where this is headed I recommend you subscribe :)


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